Not that Rebus was counting.

The back room was quiet, just somebody scribbling away at the table nearest the fire. He was a regular, a journalist of some kind. Rebus thought of Ned Farlowe, who would want to know about Candice, but if anyone could keep him at bay, Sammy could. Rebus took out his mobile, phoned Colquhoun’s office.

‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said.

‘What is it now?’

The lecturer sounded thoroughly exasperated. ‘Those refugees you mentioned. Any chance you could have a word with them?’

‘Well, I ...’

Colquhoun cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I suppose I could talk to them. Does that mean ...?’

‘Candice is safe.’

‘I don’t have their number here.’

Colquhoun sounded fuddled again. ‘Can it wait till I go home?’

‘Phone me when you’ve talked to them. And thanks.’

Rebus rang off, finished his coffee, and called Siobhan Clarke at home.

‘I need a favour,’ he said, feeling like a broken record.

‘How much trouble will it get me in?’

‘Almost none.’

‘Can I have that in writing?’

‘Think I’m stupid?’

Rebus smiled. ‘I want to see the files on Telford.’

‘Why not just ask Claverhouse?’

‘I’d rather ask you.’

‘It’s a lot of stuff. Do you want photocopies?’

‘Whatever.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Voices were raised in the front bar. ‘You’re not in the Ox, are you?’

‘As it happens, yes.’

‘Drinking?’

‘A mug of coffee.’

She laughed in disbelief and told him to take care. Rebus ended the call and stared at his mug. People like Siobhan Clarke, they could drive a man to drink.

7

It was 7 a.m. when the buzzer sounded, telling him there Was someone at his tenement’s main door. He staggered along was all to the intercom, and asked who the bloody hell it was, he ‘The croissant man,’ a rough English voice replied.

‘The what?’

‘Come on, dick-brain, wakey-wakey. Memory’s not so hot the e days, eh?’

A name tilted into Rebus’s head. ‘Abernethy?, ‘Now open up, it’s perishing down here.’

Rebus pushed the buzzer to let Abernethy in, then jogged back the bedroom to put on some clothes. His mind felt numb Abernethy was a DI in Special Branch, London. The last time he) d been in Edinburgh had been to chase terrorists. Rebus wondered what the hell he was doing here now.

When the doorbell sounded, Rebus tucked in his shirt and walked back down the hall. True to his word, Abernethy was carrying a bag of croissants. He hadn’t changed much: same faded denims and black leather bomber, same cropped brown hair spiked with gel. His face was heavy, pockmarked, and his eyes an unnerving, psycho, path’s blue.

‘How’ve you been, mate?’

Abernethy slapped Rebus’s shoulder and marched past him into the kitchen. ‘Get the kettle on.’ Like they did this every day of the week. Like they didn’t live four hundred miles apart.

‘Abernethy, what the hell are you doing here?’

‘Feeding you, of course, same thing the English have always done for the Jocks. Got any butter?’